Travis gets his revenge

My name is Travis and this is my story about my bathroom war with a co-worker.

My favorite men’s room was the largest one on the sixth floor of the Independence Plaza Building, where my office was located. It was spacious and bright with a cheerful pattern white tile on the floor and walls. The janitorial staff always kept the place spotlessly clean and well-stocked with soap, paper towels, and toilet paper. Institutional, yet attractive and comfortable, it was truly as fine as a common worker’s restroom could be. From the over-sized sinks to the stainless steel wall mounted trash receptacles, it was all high quality. Everything was well placed and every gleaming white fixture functioned with flawless efficiency.

But it was not just ambiance and serviceability that made this facility rate so very highly among the many in which I have shat on company time. The most important consideration in assessing the worthiness of a workplace restroom is its relative thronage — that is, the ratio of toilets to workers.  You see, the ratio of men to women on this floor was like 4 women to every man.  Which meant we had access to two stalls, one of which was a spacious “handicap” stall.  This stall was even equipped with “OMFG!  Get this shat out of me please!” handles on each side.

You see, there is a logical process in selecting a restroom stall. In order to maximize personal space for a private activity, we prefer to choose a stall that is not next to one already occupied. The architects of the Independence Plaza Building evidently understood this fundamental need and addressed it by specifying a floor plan that was disproportionately large in relation to proximate office space. I recognized the result as a kind gesture on the part of the building management. Thoughtful spending had enabled us to take on-duty dumps in an atmosphere of serenity and free space, instead of having to be crowded into the immediate presence of other people shitting, as is common in the phone monkey sector.

The handicapped-access stall was secluded and roomy, the ADA stall would have been the crème de la crème of staff-level water closets, but it was only for show. No handicapped men worked on the sixth floor and we who were not handicapped did use it. It was the toilet away from home toilet.

The ADA stall was the most popular because it was the most attractive and most private, having a tiled wall on the left of the seated guest and a neighboring stall only on the right. It was the one I felt most at home in, but it was frequently taken already when I needed to go. It was always a proud and happy occasion to find it open and waiting.

What was not acceptable and what greatly irritated me was when the occasional turd burglar would pick the stall next to mine.  And if the social retard was callous enough to fart, moan, grunt, or snort while mindlessly violating my entitled personal space, I went into a suppressed rage and seethed with contempt.  “Thanks alot you f**king turd burglar!”

And as if having to sit within a yard of his splashing turds were not undue imposition enough, there was also the inconvenience of having to schedule my exit so that the unwelcome neighbor and I would not both emerge from our stalls at the same time. Considering that the jerk was too thick to understand the basic rule about where to shit, I could reliably predict that he would have no awareness of the second rule either. So it was all up to me to circumvent any incidental we-just-shat-together eye contact that could result in embarrassment or unspoken animosity.

The most frustrating aspect of such an experience was the lack of recourse. In a public restroom, a man does not speak while shitting. He may let out a grunt or start breathing heavy.  To issue an utterance to another man as you squat bare-assed on a bowl or to address another man as he squats likewise would be unthinkable. Sometimes needed, but under very strict guidelines.  So I had to passively tolerate these offenses in silence. I could not warn off intruders nor could I speak out against their audacity. Above all, I could not retreat and live to shit another day with any sense of self-respect. Neither fight nor flight was an option.

But one Friday afternoon on a fine summer day, I got lucky. All the elements of vengeance and triumph came together when Sloth chose the worst possible time and place to drop his pants in the hope enjoying an intrusive shit.

Sloth (not his real name) worked for another group. I had to deal with him periodically on inter-department matters, which was difficult because he was belligerent, uncooperative, and confrontational. This was due in part to a long-standing grudge against my intelligence, but mostly it was just because he was a fat prick with dead animals seething from his anus. His sarcasm, tantrums, vague threats, and tiresome snottiness in general got him uncivil treatment in return, and we developed an intense contempt for each other.  (I think I am his nightly spank bank though, unconfirmed, but highly probable)

Fortunately, I was a little sick with something on that memorable day. There had already been a traumatic discharge early in the morning before I left for work. Voluminous quantities of dark brown liquid, semi-liquid, and slimy lumps of some gastrointestinal nightmare had gushed out in long, thick jets. The whole sloppy mess was power-assisted by a deadly gas that blew before, during, and after like an evil wind. The spew of poison air and soupy bio-hazards filled the bathroom with an unearthly stench that stifled my breath, burned my eyes, and made me fear for my life.

Now it was about two hours after lunch and my intestines were re-pressurized with more of the same. They were writhing, rumbling, and getting ready to heave out another bucketful of brown Hell. With no time to spare, I had just made it back to Independance Plaza from my daily walk with the “Myke Reinhold” and needed to get to a restroom right away.

I was worried about anal leakage en route to a potty, so my initial objective had been the nearest men’s room on the first floor. That would have been a wiser plan, but I temporarily felt more confident once inside the building and recklessly put the importance of familiar comfort ahead of not shitting my pants.

A minute later, past the point of no return, confidence dwindled as pressure increased. It intensified quickly to the extent that I was struggling to maintain control and was truly afraid. Afraid of spurting hot poo in the elevator car, alarming and repulsing the other public servants therein. The shame would be deep and eternal.

I forced that thought out of my mind and replaced it with another. I focused on a mental image of myself as master of my own bowels; calling the shots on where and when they move, where and when they don’t. With some psychological relief, but none in the physical, I reached the sixth floor without incident and credited it to this mind-over-fecal- matter exercise.

I proceeded nervously out of the elevator to the men’s room as urgently as a butt-puckered, stiff-legged man full of shit can walk. Looking toward the restroom, I noticed Sloth waddling toward me from the opposite elevator. He was also headed for the restroom, as it turned out.

We met at the door and exchanged hateful glances. I went in first and he followed immediately behind, almost bumping into me and another guy who was trying to get past us to exit. I continued on, quickly scanning the stalls. Both stalls were free. There was no one else in the restroom, which was not unusual on a Friday afternoon. There probably wasn’t much traffic anywhere on the sixth floor at that time.

It would have been most practical to dart into the first stall, but there were two clear challenges now. Reaching any toilet in time was the critical need, of course, but making it to the coveted throne afar was my ultimate goal. That was the one I really wanted. Just a few more taut mini-steps and it would be mine.

Mr. Sloth stayed on my heels. I could hear the huffy-puffy sound of his labored breathing from immediately behind my back. At first, I thought he was trying to get by me in order to claim the ADA stall for himself. I quickened my pressure-constricted stride, confident that the wheezing hog could not outpace me despite the disadvantage of my delicate condition.

He followed the whole way brazenly entered the stall next to the ADA stall. The intent of his antagonistic posturing was obvious by then. I got the message even more clearly as he thumped around noisily in the stall and knocked his big ass into the partition between us before settling onto the pot with an obnoxious sigh. His purpose was to demonstrate blatant disrespect by invading my personal space.

Normally I would have felt the anger building; but not this time. What I felt was the power of a secret weapon within. I felt my sphincter quiver in anticipation of dispensing a dose of noxious wrath and I felt absolute joy in knowing that Sloth was positioned at close range to best receive it. With such a wonderfully manifested opportunity at hand, I could hardly contain myself.

And I didn’t. I unleashed an intestinal rage that put a decisive and immediate end to any hope of adverse pooping satisfaction in his stall. When the explosive turbulence roared into his unguarded environment, he shifted on his seat. The noise had probably startled him. It at least gave him unmistakable notice of an assault underway.

A very short notice. Through warm, humid air in a confined space, the speed of stink approaches the speed of sound. Before the echo of the first eruption subsided, I heard his toilet paper roll spinning in the dispenser and a frantic rustling of paper as he folded some over a couple of times to place over his nose and mouth. I knew he was not wiping with it because he had not had time to shit. He was trying to save himself; trying in vain to shield his airway from an enveloping cloud of death with single-ply, commercial-grade tissue.

I laughed out loud at his futile defense. The transfer of toxic scent molecules from my ass to his nostrils was unstoppable. I fired again and laughed louder.

He was on his feet within seconds, mostly zipped-up, I suppose, and rattling the door latch. Determined to hit him once more before he got out, I grunted and pushed hard. A raspy, squealing fart cut through the contaminated air until a string of wet poo clumps cut it off. They were still plopping into the bowl as Sloth stomped heavily along the length of the room toward the exit.

My shorts were unstained, the warm air was putrid, and all was right with the world. In the afterglow of victory, I contemplated the perfection of accidental timing and felt certain that Sloth would be showing some respect in the future.

He didn’t. He only hated me more. But he may have become forever fearful of further feces or flatulence: he never entered my personal space again.

The moral of this story is simple; Do not F**K with the s**t king baby!

This entry was posted on Wednesday, January 7, 2009 at 11:07 and is filed under WTF, Funny. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response or trackback from your own site.

| Print